


Rekindle the Spirit

by AuroraNova



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Misunderstandings, Post-Canon, Slight Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24042142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraNova/pseuds/AuroraNova
Summary: Elim Garak can be a vexing man to look after. Results are better if two people cooperate.Or, there is still one person on Cardassia who cares about Garak, and she teams up with the other individual who has earned Garak's trust: Julian Bashir. Surgery is performed, misunderstandings are (eventually) cleared up, and Tain would be appalled, which everyone else thinks is very much for the best.
Relationships: Julian Bashir & Elim Garak
Comments: 28
Kudos: 107





	Rekindle the Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> I went back and forth on tagging for permanent injury. It's fairly minor, but I didn't want anyone to feel blindsided, so I created my own tag for slight permanent injury. Don't worry, Julian will be working on it. =)
> 
> You can either read this as Julian/Ezri never having happened, or they ~~came to their senses~~ amicably broke up not long after getting together.
> 
> Also, when I use ‘humanoid’ for an alien POV, they would obviously think something more like ‘Cardassianoid’ or even just ‘people.’ I couldn’t find a good way to work that in here.

The morning Elim didn’t get out of bed, Vaiya decided his pride was liable to get him killed, and that the time had thus arrived to take matters into her own hands.

This proved more difficult than anticipated because the paranoid man encrypted his contact list. Well, you could hardly expect anything else from a former Obsidian Order agent, could you? Vaiya, who was not especially gifted with software and couldn’t hope to decrypt anything Elim created, solved this problem by approaching from a different angle. After a bit of digging, guesswork, and dogged persistence, she managed to open a communication line to Terok Nor, or Deep Space Nine as it was called these days. She was greeted by an understandably bewildered… well, truth be told, she didn’t know which particular alien race the man was. She wasn’t even entirely sure the person was a man. It didn’t matter.

“Hello,” she said in her best nonthreatening voice – and after spending decades as a housekeeper, it was very nonthreatening indeed. “I’m hoping you can help me reach Dr. Bashir. His friend Garak could use his help.”

“Ops isn’t a call routing station for personal business.”

Before Vaiya could explain herself, a slender, redheaded Bajoran woman came into view. “And you are?”

“Vaiya Tarel.” Sensing her opportunity, she went on, “I’m sorry for ignoring your procedures, but Garak is quite unwell. The stubborn man won’t ask for help, so I’m doing it for him. Unfortunately he encrypts his contact list.”

“He would,” said the Bajoran, and hit her the insignia on her chest. “Ops to Dr. Bashir.”

“Bashir.”

“You have Vaiya Tarel hoping to speak with you. Apparently Garak is sick.”

“Put her through to the infirmary, please.”

“Thank you,” said Vaiya to her ally. Then she was seeing Elim’s friend, who looked concerned if human expressions were even remotely like Cardassian. He had fluffy hair, an elegant neck, and was strangely smooth all over in a way which was not as unattractive as she might have expected.

Elim spoke only rarely of this man. Vaiya, who’d known Elim since the day he was born, understood this to mean Bashir was too precious to mention in casual conversation. She hoped Elim mattered similarly to Bashir. If nothing else, the doctor cared enough not only to maintain a correspondence but to send occasional packages. He replicated red leaf tea for Elim’s enjoyment, a small luxury in Cardassia City these days, along with some overly sweet human confection known as a truffle. Vaiya didn’t care for them, but Elim did love his chocolate.

“Hello, Tarel,” Bashir said, more respectfully than a man of his position needed even to an elder. Then again, Elim reported that humans were not prone to caring about social rank in the least.

She wondered if Elim had mentioned her in one of his letters. Having been orphaned before the age of four, she didn’t truly know what it was to have family, but she imagined it was something like this. Mila had been the closest Vaiya ever came to kin, and Elim was Mila’s son. He’d found Vaiya in the wreckage of her former home and looked after her when she couldn’t walk to retrieve her own food rations, never mind search for other necessities. His interactions with her bore a remarkable similarity to nephews and aunts, and Vaiya was not about to let him suffer nor die if preventing either was within her power.

“Hello, Dr. Bashir. I’m afraid Garak is in great pain, and I begin to fear for him. A rock fell on his head four days ago, and he’s been plagued with dreadful headaches ever since, getting worse every day. He hasn’t even left his bed since last night.” For some people, that might have been concerning but not cause for great alarm. Elim was not one of those people. His ability to work through pain was truly astounding.

“That was, what, seventeen hours ago?” asked Bashir.

Vaiya had not expected him to keep track of what time it was in Cardassia City. “Seventeen and a half. I tried to get him to a clinic, but he refused, and they won’t make house calls for ambulatory patients.” Why exactly Elim was being so stubborn, Vaiya had no idea. It was something of a personal principle for him, true. Had been since boyhood. Vaiya always thought Tain’s house was a poor environment for a child to grow up in, with all the secrecy and paranoia. Mila stayed regardless, and while she’d never said as much, Vaiya was nearly certain Tain was Elim’s father. It explained a great deal, including his propensity to be too prideful for his own good.

Bashir frowned. “I don’t suppose you have any idea why he won’t go to the clinic?”

“I’m afraid not.” This was half true. While she didn’t know the specific reasoning behind the current instance, she was well aware that Elim harbored a general distrust of doctors even greater than his usual level of suspicion, but Vaiya thought it best not to suggest any insult to the profession of the man whose aid she sought. Besides, Elim had befriended this particular doctor. That had to count for something.

“Unsurprising. As long as Kira authorizes the use of a midsized craft, and I’m sure she will, I can be there in six hours.”

Vaiya bowed her head in thanks. “I hope you won’t take my failure to tell Garak of your impending arrival as an insult.”

The strange furry patches over Bashir’s eyes, which didn’t look nearly as usefully protective as eyeridges, went up a bit. “Not at all. In fact, I’d say it’s the wisest course.”

She had clearly come to the right person.

* * *

The coordinates Tarel provided were so exact Julian materialized in a small living room. He noticed the crates from his packages had been repurposed to serve as bookshelves, but any more detailed inspection of Garak’s home would have to wait. From the tone of their conversation while Julian was en route, Tarel was increasingly worried, and Julian was all too aware that head trauma was not to be ignored.

“Welcome and thank you, Dr. Bashir,” said Tarel with a deep nod, almost a bow. He’d read enough of Garak’s favorite books to know this was the Cardassian social system at work, but had no interest whatsoever in reinforcing his own supposedly higher place with a curt gesture of acknowledgement. 

Julian didn’t know much about Tarel. When mentioning that he shared a house with someone, Garak described her as _someone you might call a longtime friend of the family on my mother’s side_. Julian thought that might even be true. If nothing else, Garak was not the kind of man who would live with just anyone. There was far too much trust involved in cohabitation for Garak’s liking. 

“Please,” she said, “his room is this way.”

She led Julian across the room to a door, which she then opened without warning. “Elim?”

There was no answer. Since the room was small, Julian could get a general reading with his medical tricorder, enough that he confidently stated, “He’s not asleep, he’s just hoping we’ll go away.”

That got Garak’s attention, and he sat up with a wince. “Doctor?”

“Hello, Garak.” Julian wasted no time starting to scan the man. Far too much had already elapsed since the initial injury. “I’d ask how you are, but I already know the answer is ‘in a great deal of pain.’”

“You left out ‘and plagued with an interfering housemate.’”

“You can thank me later,” said Tarel. Julian decided he quite liked her.

Julian recalibrated his medical tricorder for more detailed brain scans. It was absolutely typical of Garak to not seek assistance even when the consequences could be fatal. Honestly, didn’t he know by now that Julian wanted to help?

“How heavy was that rock, would you say?”

“I don’t know,” snapped Garak. Another bad sign. He lashed out when he was hurt, probably trying to drive people away so they didn’t see him vulnerable, or because he expected they would leave in the end so he might as well get it over with (the latter being Ezri’s theory). “I didn’t pick it up and weigh it.”

“Brentor said it was the size of a ruenduv,” said Tarel. “About so,” and she made a circle with her thumb and finger. It was plenty large enough to cause damage, especially if the rock was a dense material or fell from a significant height.

Garak glared at her. She didn’t appear phased in the least. “Brentor exaggerates.”

“Exaggeration or not, you’re coming back to the station with me,” said Julian. Both Cardassians looked at him. “I want to get a more detailed scan, but working with what I have at the moment, it’s highly likely you need brain surgery. Correction: you needed brain surgery three days ago. Let’s not waste any more time, shall we?”

“At least allow me to get dressed,” said Garak.

“As long as you won’t disappear.”

“You are the only one of us with access to a transporter at the moment, and I doubt an escape on foot is advisable.” That was Garak’s phrasing for ‘I reluctantly concede to your professional expertise.’

“Let me just tell the Ma’Naars we’re leaving. Oh,” Tarel’s face fell a bit. “Do you think we’ll be back the day after tomorrow?”

“Not likely. He’ll need observation,” Julian explained. Not that Garak had once stayed in the infirmary as long as he ought to have – there was no one else in Julian’s career who had a list of against medical advice departures half as long – but Julian intended to press every advantage he had, including being Garak’s ride home.

“That’s ration day,” Tarel explained. “We’ll have to fill out the form giving someone permission to retrieve our rations for the week.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Julian, who really did want to get back to the runabout and maximum warp as soon as possible. “I’ll bring you home with food.” More than a week’s worth, if he had any say in the matter.

“Very well. Excuse me, please,” said Garak, looking pointedly at the door. Julian left the room with Tarel and closed the door behind him.

“Thank you, Doctor.” Tarel looked like she might have hugged him, which was not exactly how Julian tended to think of Cardassians. “I’ve been so dreadfully worried. Do you think he’ll be alright?”

“Brain surgery is never without risk,” he said, because in his experience Cardassians didn’t appreciate sugar-coating. “However, I think the odds are very good.” Somewhere around ninety-two percent, in fact, though he wouldn’t know for certain until he got the more detailed images. That wasn’t as high as Julian would have liked, but the odds never were and he never let it stop him.

“I’m glad to hear it. Excuse me, I must tell the neighbors we’ll be gone.” With another formal nod, Tarel left Julian alone in the living room.

The place was homier than one might have expected a disaster zone. Granted, a corner of the roof was nothing more than a tarp, and while Julian was no expert he thought one of the walls looked heavily patched. Structural defects aside, however, the home was neat and tidy (he expected nothing less from Garak), with the homemade bookcase almost full and a potted plant growing by each of the two windows. There was even a sharply geometric painting on the far wall. Julian knew from Garak’s letters that scavenging had been an important aspect of Cardassian life for the last five months, and evidence that Garak had a talent for it was not surprising in the least.

Garak emerged from his room dressed crisply as ever, but Julian knew him well enough to see the signs of pain. The tension around his eyes was a clear giveaway. “What is your diagnosis, Doctor?”

“My _preliminary_ diagnosis,” Julian emphasized, “is that the impact of the rock moved the cranial implant down at an angle, and it’s now pressed against surrounding brain tissue in what must be an incredibly painful manner.”

“I’ve been more comfortable,” admitted Garak.

“And, furthermore, if left untreated, this is only going to get worse. The brain is a delicate organ. I’m also concerned about the potential for an aneurysm which could well be fatal. I don’t know why you didn’t seek medical help days ago, but you gambled with your life.” Which was nothing new for Garak, sadly.

“I assure you that going to the local clinic would have been just as much a gamble, likely with worse odds.”

“The odds are already upwards of sixty percent that you’ll be dead in a month if you don’t get the implant removed.”

Garak nodded. “As I suspected. Better than if I’d presented myself at the clinic.”

Julian decided that particular mystery could wait. “You realize the surgery isn’t without risk.”

“Of course not. You’ll be rummaging around in my brain, there’s always a risk.”

“I will do nothing of the sort,” retorted Julian. Rummaging, really. “Regardless, the implant was tied into your entire nervous system through precise placement and integration into your brain.”

“That was the point.”

“Garak. Tied into your entire central nervous system means there is the potential, however small, that removing it would mean you deal with chronic pain for the rest of your life. And to be perfectly honest with you, that potential would decrease if the procedure is done by a Cardassian neurosurgeon.”

Garak sighed. “Have you read any news out of Cardassia, Doctor?”

“A bit.” More than a bit, actually.

“Including, perhaps, reports that certain professions which used to be foundational to our society are notably unpopular at the moment?”

“Yes. I don’t see what that has to do with… wait a minute, are you suggesting that if doctors knew how you got that implant, they’d deliberately botch the surgery?” It was so appalling to Julian’s ethics the idea hadn’t even occurred to him immediately.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” said Garak, and this was clearly all he wanted to say on the matter, because he moved the conversation along. “I noticed Tarel invited herself to join us.”

“I was going to ask her to come anyway. Making sure you rest during your recovery is at least a two-person job.”

Garak did not deign to respond, probably because he knew Julian was right.

* * *

Elim’s Dr. Bashir was a very kind man. Vaiya was predisposed to like him for promptly coming to Elim’s aid and found her initial good opinion borne out by further interactions. He gave Elim a hypospray which was clearly of significant help, insisted on replicating both of them something to eat, and did not tolerate any of Elim’s nonsense.

He’d obviously had practice on the last point.

“Absolutely not,” he said sternly, intercepting the glass of kanar Elim had replicated before it touched his lips.

“I’m not going to become inebriated on a single glass,” protested Elim, probably testing to see how far he could push. He never took well to needing help. Vaiya blamed Tain.

“Alcohol and the combination of painkillers I just gave you do not mix well,” Dr. Bashir said. “I don’t think we need to add loss of consciousness or cardiac disturbances on top of your brain injury.”

Elim sat down and went back to his soup. The replicator didn’t have any Cardassian dishes (though Dr. Bashir promised a ‘Replimat’ would have them on Deep Space Nine), so they were having a human soup Bashir called ‘lentil’ and the translator informer her was a ‘Terran legume.’ It was rather bland, but Vaiya had never been a fussy eater and recent events made her even less so. If nothing else, this was a pleasant change of culinary pace. With more seasoning it would be quite good.

His midsized craft (that was the translator’s term; its proper name was evidently ‘runabout’) was overly bright, but Bashir thoughtfully dimmed the lights and increased the temperature. After checking their progress at the helm, he asked, “So, Tarel, I’m told you’re a friend of Garak’s family.”

Then Elim had mentioned her. “Yes. I grew up in the same orphanage as his mother,” she said. “She was my dearest friend.”

It was puzzling that Bashir referred to Elim by his family name, not least because Vaiya was under the impression humans were very free with the use of their personal names. Surely after seven years of a friendship which Elim cherished so deeply, he would have suggested they use first names? True, Bashir was a doctor and one wasn’t usually so bold with one’s betters, but then again, Elim never minded moving between social classes as he saw fit. He’d always occupied a rather nebulous place in hierarchy. 

Obviously disinclined to speak of Mila, Elim said, “Doctor, should it be necessary, I will entrust medical decisions I am unable to make to you, with the caveat that I am not to be kept alive by artificial means if I cannot survive on my own within two weeks.”

Bashir swallowed a mouthful of his own soup in a gulp. “I understand.”

Elim turned to her. “Vaiya, should it be necessary, I want you to grant Dr. Bashir an exemption from all Cardassian customs preventing outsiders from participation in funeral rites.”

“It will be as you wish.” She doubted Bashir understood the gravity of Elim’s desire, but there would be time to inform him later. She hoped.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m not worried about his odds of surviving,” said Bashir.

It did make her feel better, though she didn’t know what under the sky made Elim refuse to see a doctor about this. She would be having words with him about that later. For now it was late, and her tiredness must’ve been obvious, because Bashir offered her a place to lay down which she accepted gratefully. The last few days had been exhausting, what with feeling that if she didn’t look after Elim no one would, including the man himself. She was relieved to pass the burden to a professional.

Elim would be fine soon. He had to be.

* * *

Bashir had something on his mind. He remained bad as ever at hiding it, so once Vaiya went to rest in the back of the runabout, Garak said, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, what is it you clearly wish to say?”

Bashir frowned. “That obvious?”

“Quite.”

After what Garak suspected was an unnecessary check of helm control, Bashir looked over and asked, “Were you really going to let yourself risk death without contacting me?”

“If you must know, I was waiting on a response from a surgeon I used to know.” He left out the part where she used to attend to urgent requests in a timelier fashion. Garak was not the same as he had been a decade ago, either.

“Do you have any idea,” Bashir asked, drawing out the words in the way he did when trying to keep his tone measured, “how I would’ve felt if you died of something I might have prevented and you didn’t give me a chance to help?”

Garak did not. He’d gotten the impression, from Bashir’s notably succinct letters, that their friendship was a fading relic. After all, Julian Bashir did nothing half-heartedly if he was truly invested. Even his packages were the same every time, and while Garak enjoyed both red leaf tea and chocolate truffles, he thought a bit of variety would’ve shown some thoughtfulness on Bashir’s part. Sending the same items every month gave the impression of completing a chore.

“I’m sorry my theoretical death wounds your professional pride,” he said.

“Dammit, Garak, this has nothing to do with my ego!” Oh, that was a sore spot. “You’re my friend. I don’t want you to die. Is that really so difficult to comprehend?”

Perhaps Garak had misjudged the situation. This was Bashir in all his passionate glory, without a doubt. “Very well, Doctor. In the future, should I find myself in dire need of medical care and without immediate recourse, I will contact you at once.” Though, after the implant was removed, the local clinic would be much less dangerous to Garak and he might avail himself of it if needed. He did not, as a rule, enjoy submitting himself for medical procedures, but he had no wish to die and would suffer the risk of allowing others access to his body if needed.

“Good,” said Bashir.

Garak would have to give further consideration to the idea that Bashir was simply, and bafflingly, neither a gifted letter writer nor package sender. The puzzle could wait until his head didn’t throb. The hypospray helped a great deal, in particular with the stabbing sensations which had recently begun to travel down his spine, but the pain remained considerable. It seemed to fit the themes of Garak’s life that the device designed to make him immune to pain now, for the second time, caused so very much.

And here, again, was Dr. Bashir to save him from Tain’s legacy. This too was becoming a theme.

Garak closed his eyes and tried to enjoy the sensation of not being hungry. Bashir took this as reproach it was not intended to be, saying contritely, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t make your injury about me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Garak, opening his eyes just enough to see Bashir looking slightly reassured. “I am not offended by your concern, Doctor.” He was in fact more touched by it than he cared to admit.

Bashir leaned over to pat Garak’s hand. “Get some rest if you can.”

Garak hmmed and closed his eyes again. In a runabout with the only two people left in the universe he trusted entirely, he allowed himself to relax as much as his severely aching head would allow.

* * *

Garak’s situation was more dire than Julian’s initial scans had revealed. The implant was cutting off blood flow and showed indications that it was increasing pressure on an artery in a way which would soon lead to complete blockage.

“You let them put an implant in your head?” asked Tarel incredulously. She seemed to know exactly who ‘they’ were.

“It seemed like a good idea at that time,” said Garak.

“I’m sure it did,” Julian said, hoping to head off a disagreement, “but it needs to be removed as soon as possible.” He’d have preferred more time to prepare. That was no longer a viable option. “As you are undoubtedly aware, tissue which does not receive blood dies within minutes, and you’re perilously close to the danger zone. I would like to treat this as emergency surgery, but I can prepare the standard informed consent form if you prefer.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Garak. “I’m sure you wouldn’t recommend brain surgery without good cause.”

“How long will the surgery take?” Tarel asked.

“At least three hours. Possibly as long as five.” Julian hit his combadge. “Bashir to Dax.”

“Dax.”

“Are you busy?”

“No. What do you need?”

“Guest quarters arranged. If you can come to the infirmary, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’m on my way. Dax out.”

“Doctor, if you would be so kind as to inform me when he’s out of surgery, I would appreciate it,” said Tarel.

“Of course.”

“Then I will wait for Dax and stay out of the way.”

There was something to be said for Cardassian pragmatism at times. Julian called Nurse Menali in and began to prep for surgery. There wasn’t a moment to waste.

* * *

Vaiya politely declined Lieutenant Dax’s offer of a tour. Fortunately the young – very young – woman took no offense, and merely led the way toward guest quarters. “Garak is in good hands with Julian,” she said.

So that was Dr. Bashir’s first name.

“I know.” Elim’s reasons remained a mystery, but it was perfectly clear that he trusted Bashir, which was doubly reassuring considering his longstanding suspicion of the profession as a whole.

It was strange to see familiar architectural themes, instantly recognizable as Cardassian and an extension of home even when done in harsh military style, filled with so many aliens. And goodness, how did anyone keep track of so many races with similar features? Vaiya wasn’t sure what marked a different species versus subsets of the same alien people. The too-bright lights made her squint, complicating the task further. Bajorans she could recognize, thanks in large part to the omnipresent earrings. She knew Bashir was human because Elim had told her so. Looking at the spotted pattern running down Dax’s face and neck, Vaiya had no idea if that meant she was a different species, or humans also came with spots.

She wondered if Elim knew Dax. Then again, the lieutenant was too young to have been on the station very long. Unless she was from a species which aged very differently, which was a possibility, Vaiya thought Dax must’ve spent most of Elim’s time here growing up and receiving an education elsewhere.

“I’m putting you in two-bedroom guest quarters,” said the young lieutenant as they entered a turbolift. “I’m sure Julian is going to want to keep Garak here for a few days once he released him from the infirmary, just to be on the safe side.”

Were Dax and Bashir friends, or did all Starfleet officers used their first names with each other? “I think it would be best,” Vaiya said. Elim was liable to cut short his recovery time if given half a chance.

“Habitat ring, corridor H-12-B.” At Dax’s instruction, the turbolift began to move. “There’s a replicator, of course. Is there anything you need which can’t be replicated?”

“No, thank you.”

“Let me know if you think of something,” said Dax.

The guest quarters were spacious and pleasingly furnished, especially to one used to scarcity in the aftermath of the Dominion assault. Vaiya had spent a month sleeping on the floor before Elim managed to find her a mattress and, later, a frame to put it on. His own came weeks later still.

“We’ve had to put limits on replicator use in guest quarters.” Dax sounded apologetic, as though it wasn’t a perfectly sensible measure. “There was an incident with some Ferengi. But you should be able to get everything you need. It’s set for two people, and the energy allocation resets every day at nine hundred hours. You can ask the computer to tell you how much of your allocation is left, and if you really need more, let me or Julian know.”

These Starfleet officers certainly were generous. Vaiya began to suspect that the Federation was not as hopelessly degenerate as she’d been told.

* * *

Garak felt no pain whatsoever.

As he progressed further into consciousness, he realized his painlessness was no doubt due to medication. Still, he appreciated it. After the last few days he needed the respite.

It gradually dawned on him that he ought not hide from reality any longer, so he forced his eyes open. Unsurprisingly and agreeably, the first thing he saw was Bashir’s face, and surrounded by considerably dimmer lighting than was usual for the infirmary at that. The doctor was most conscientious.

“Hello, Garak. Don’t try to sit up just yet.”

Garak had no such intention. He was enjoying his present state of comfort too much to risk ruining it.

“I was able to remove the implant and repair the damage it caused when the rock fell on your head.”

“And that small chance of chronic pain?” rasped Garak though what he now realized was a very dry mouth.

Bashir handed him a cup of water with a straw. “It’s too early to be certain, but I’m optimistic.”

“You always are.” Happily, the slight movement required to drink didn’t cause any discomfort. The Federation did have marvelous pain medication at its disposal. Cardassian doctors could learn a thing or two from their Federation counterparts on the subject.

“I’m going to keep you on fairly strong painkillers for at least another forty hours while you heal from the surgery,” continued Bashir, and if he expected a protest, Garak couldn’t find it in himself to offer one. “That was a very invasive procedure and your brain is still recovering from the initial trauma caused by the rock. Some pain is to be expected.”

Life generally was painful, in Garak’s experience. He would have preferred a more dignified cause this time than a rock, but one was rarely granted the luxury of choice in such matters.

Bashir went on, “You might also experience vertigo for the next several days. And this should go without saying, but I will say it anyway, no alcohol or mood-altering substances of any kind. I mean it, Garak. Do I need to list the many and varied ways kanar could hinder your recovery?”

“No,” said Garak, belatedly realizing that may have given the impression he’d developed an addiction since his return to Cardassia. On the handful of occasions he’d managed to obtain kanar, he invariably traded it for something more practical, excepting once, and he didn’t think anyone would begrudge him and Vaiya the toast they shared on Mila’s birthday.

“Good. Are you up to seeing Tarel?”

“Of course.” He was very tired, but not so badly off that he would deny her the reassurance of seeing him. The dear woman had only him in the universe now, which was an unfortunate state of affairs for her, but Garak did his best.

He’d thought that on the whole, he had only her as well. Watching Bashir lead her to the biobed he currently occupied, Garak reconsidered the idea. It never did to rush into hope, of course – such recklessness only set one up for disappointment later on – but evidence suggested Bashir wasn’t consigning their friendship to the past. Distance would change it. That was inevitable. But break it? Well, that no longer seemed certain.

* * *

Julian kept Garak in the infirmary for two days before agreeing to release him on the condition that he rested in guest quarters. After a half-hearted attempt to argue that he’d get even more rest in his own guest quarters, he accepted Julian’s stipulations, which included a cortical monitor and Tarel’s presence in case he got any ideas about overexerting himself.

Garak was still dizzy and suffering from a headache which he described as ‘much less troublesome than before,’ neither of which was a surprise. All signs pointed to a complete recovery, but there was no rushing the process, much as Garak might like to. That he reported no pain anywhere aside from his head was very good news indeed.

In the guest quarters, Julian spotted a large carryall, nearly full, with a three-kilo bag of dried lentils on top. Tarel must have liked the soup.

“Is that not permitted?” she asked when she saw him looking at her stash. “Lieutenant Dax said I could replicate whatever I wanted, and it seemed a waste not to use the entire energy allotment every day.”

“It’s not a problem at all. Don’t worry about your allotment, either. I did promise to bring you back with enough food to replace the rations you missed.” And surplus, for that matter. Julian had plenty of extra replicator credits he was happy to share, and he could talk Kira into authorizing still more if needed.

“You didn’t ask what I’d like.” Trust Garak to find a point of contention anywhere.

Unconcerned, Tarel replied, “I replicated you two toothbrushes and norku wool stockings.”

When Garak swayed slightly, Julian urged him along to bed. Debates about what to replicate could wait until Garak’s recovery had progressed further, or at the very least he wasn’t trying to stand up. The vertigo, while not unduly alarming at this stage, was worse than Julian would’ve projected in most species, and not to be brushed aside.

“Don’t worry, Doctor,” said Tarel. “I won’t let him do anything foolish.”

Garak was not amused, though his stern look was somewhat ruined by the cortical monitor. “And what am I allowed to do? Lie here and admire the ceiling?”

“I read a good book last week. I’ll send you the audio version.” Ideally Garak would listen between naps, but Julian would settle for general rest and relaxation. Knowing when to pick your battles was key to handling Garak.

“Good is such a subjective term,” groused Garak. He was clearly feeling quite a bit better, if he was ready to complain about Julian’s taste in literature again. “Not to mention imprecise.”

“The tissue where you took that rock to your head is still two hundred and eight percent more fragile than usual,” said Julian, wishing not for the first time that he neural regenerating technology was more advanced. It didn’t help that every species was slightly different and Cardassians were as secretive with their medical information as everything else. “Is that precise enough for you?”

“It will do,” said Garak.

“Get as much sleep as your body wants. I’ll be by to check on you in the morning.”

When Julian got to the bedroom door, Garak said, “Doctor?”

He turned. “Yes?”

“Thank you.” There was nothing but sincerity in Garak’s voice.

“You’re welcome.”

Outside Garak’s bedroom, to Tarel, Julian said, “Don’t hesitate to contact me if you need anything.”

She nodded. “Elim is very fortunate to have you as a friend, Dr. Bashir.”

Julian didn’t exactly know how to respond to that. He couldn’t begin to explain all the ways he’d been fortunate to have Garak as a friend; to have someone who accepted him from the beginning when he was terribly immature, who never minded when he shared overzealously or missed a social cue; to relish the challenge of their conversations and learn to see beyond the viewpoints with which he’d been raised; and to have Garak visit him on the _Defiant_ when he was truly terrible company and Garak nevertheless made a personal mission of taking Julian’s mind off casualty reports for a few minutes.

So he said, “I’m happy to help,” and left Tarel standing there with a thoughtful expression on her face.

* * *

Federation aliens didn’t strike Vaiya as degenerate, but they were indisputably baffling.

“They _want_ to let a parasite take over their bodies?”

“I wouldn’t use that word around a Trill,” said Elim. “Or a Trill’s friends, for that matter, and you can count a large percentage of the station’s population in the latter group. The proper term is ‘symbiont.’”

She’d asked him if Dax was human or another race. He was bored enough to explain about joined Trill, a concept Vaiya found truly appalling. Not that she held it against Lieutenant Dax, of course, but on a personal level, what a horrifying concept! To let another creature share your body and change everything about who you are… it sounded worse than death. At first she thought it might be some sort of punishment or a great service to the state, but Elim assured her joining was a sought-after privilege in Trill society. What a strange people.

Her alarm went off. Elim cringed, and Vaiya realized she needed a much quieter alarm. “End alarm.” Nothing happened.

“Computer, silence alarm,” said Elim. “You have to say ‘computer’ before giving a command. It’s Federation programming.”

“But how does the computer know we’re speaking to it?” asked Vaiya. The Cardassian system of a specific pitch was much more sensible. It did explain the trouble she’d had the previous day, however. It had taken her three full minutes to turn off the alarm.

“It only recognizes certain commands. What is the alarm for?”

“It’s almost time for the replicator’s energy allotment to reset, so I need to use what’s left.” To that end, Vaiya had spent time earlier browsing available options. At first she’d focused on non-food items simply because Dr. Bashir promised to return them home with food, so it was only reasonable to spend energy rations on items he wouldn’t otherwise provide. Soap, for instance, was in short supply at the moment and not likely to be abundant in the immediate future. She was also particularly pleased with her new shoes.

Having met the most pressing non-food needs, she turned her attention to food. She had no idea what Bashir would offer, so it was wise to replicate as much of her own as possible. Dried zabu chips wouldn’t go amiss and would keep for some time. Also… “Do you need shoes?”

Elim stood and made his way to the replicator, doing a poor job of pretending the room wasn’t swirling around him as he did so. He could’ve just told her what he wanted, but no, he insisted on doing it himself. The man was pathologically opposed to anyone or anything impinging on his self-sufficiency, to an almost unCardassian degree. That was Enabran Tain’s influence for you.

And yet, he allowed Bashir to take care of him. Not without protest, token and otherwise, but he did, which was what mattered. He had consented to brain surgery on nothing more than Bashir’s word, and if that wasn’t an expression of deep trust, Vaiya didn’t know what was.

If only he hadn’t waited so long. Best not to harangue him about that at the moment, though. Vaiya made sure he got back to the couch without incident and started replicating zabu chips.

* * *

The latest scan of Garak’s brain was encouraging. Inflammation was down and the tissue was healing, if not as fast as Garak wanted. Julian, who had more reasonable expectations, was pleased.

“Don’t you have a medication for this dizziness?” asked Garak.

Yes and no. For one thing, the ongoing vertigo had the desirable effect of forcing Garak to take it easy and was thus good for him. For another, “None of them have ever been given to a Cardassian patient, which means I can’t begin to predict side effects or negative reactions. Do you really want to be the test subject while you’re recovering from a major surgery?”

“It would give you material for your next paper.”

“While I appreciate your consideration for my publishing career, I don’t think the risk is warranted at this point. Now, I want to do a general physical while you’re here. You also, Tarel.” There was no telling what kind of issues could have accumulated while they were living in a disaster zone.

As it turned out, the physiological damage was minimal. (Julian did not care to speculate on psychological harm, inevitable as it must have been. He left that realm to Ezri.) Garak had a strained rhomboid major, partially healed, which took very little time to entirely repair, as well as some inhaled particulate matter. That Julian removed with the targeted medical transporter.

Tarel also needed microparticles removed from her lungs, as well as a chipped tooth repaired, scarring around her left knee removed for ease of walking, a ligament in the same knee regenerated, and while he was at it, Julian took care of the beginnings of a cataract.

“Finally,” he said, “you have some nutrient deficiencies. I’ll start you with daily hypos while you’re here, and I’ll give you some pills you can take back with you.”

Garak gave him an assessing look. “I don’t recall you treating me for nutrient deficiencies.”

Julian had known that was coming, and attempted to deflect more because he knew it was expected of him than any hope of success. “You’re in better shape.” This was true. Tarel must not have liked chocolate.

“I find that suspicious,” Garak said.

“You find everything suspicious.”

“We have been eating the exact same foods. With one notable exception: your chocolate truffles.”

Yes, Julian had been caught out. He’d managed to get the supplements into Garak for a while, at least, and while he briefly considered a placebo, that seemed likely to backfire eventually. Better to confess. “I hope you appreciate the effort I put into perfecting the replicator pattern.” It had proven to be a challenge, partly because Cardassian taste buds were sensitive and partly because replicator patterns were not Julian’s field of expertise.

“May I ask why you didn’t just send your pills?” asked Tarel, which was a reasonable question. Kira and Ezri had wondered the same thing.

“Because I didn’t want him to turn them over to be distributed as the state saw fit. I don’t have enough replicator rations to save everyone on Cardassia from malnutrition, but I can help you.” Not to mention that getting Garak to accept help was rarely straightforward. The truffles, in Julian’s considered opinion, had been more likely to succeed.

Garak looked at him without saying anything for a moment, just one of his indecipherable expression and a slow blink. Finally, he said, “An effective strategy, Doctor. I’m impressed.”

Tarel wore the expression of a woman resigned to confusion. “I won’t let him give them away,” she told Julian.

“And just how do you plan to stop me?”

“By appealing to your sense of self-preservation, firstly, and your desire to stay healthy enough to make sure this old woman is as comfortable as possible.”

Something passed between the two of them which Julian couldn’t begin to read, but Garak relented with enough show to suggest he wasn’t terribly sorry. “Very well. I suppose it would be rude to disregard the intent of Dr. Bashir’s generous gifts.”

Good. That was one less thing Julian had to worry about.

* * *

“Dr. Bashir is very good to you,” said Vaiya once they were alone in their guest quarters. 

“He is,” agreed Garak. Better than he deserved, no doubt.

“And yet you risked your life instead of doing the sensible thing and asking for his help.” She picked up the knitting supplies on which Garak had at length convinced her to spend replicator rations. She needed some way to pass her time, and the blanket she was making would not go amiss come autumn. “What in the nine seas were you thinking, Elim?”

“I may have made a slight miscalculation.” Several, actually, but he wasn’t about to admit as much. After learning about Bashir’s admirably executed effort to keep him healthy, and reflecting on his friendship with the doctor, Garak was forced to admit to himself that past experience of being discarded when he was no longer useful or amusing may have colored his interpretation of Bashir’s short, uninspired letters.

“Slight,” Vaiya scoffed. “It must be a terrible way to live, in fear of anything but complete self-sufficiency.”

“Must you lecture me?”

“I want you to be happy. And I don’t think you can be while you’re still trying to please your father.”

“I am doing no such thing,” retorted Garak. It wasn’t a surprise that Vaiya knew his paternity, but he did not appreciate her mentioning it, not least in this conversation and because he truly was not following the path Tain would have. In Garak’s position, Tain would’ve been consolidating his own power from the earliest opportunity, not quietly attempting to keep the community functioning and some semblance of order maintained.

That, in the end, had been the fundamental difference between Garak and his father, not to mention the true reason Tain had felt threatened enough to exile him. (Though being a weakness was not a mark in Garak’s favor, either.) Tain sought power for its own sake, where Garak wanted to serve the state and, by extension, the people. There were other differences Garak recognized now, flaws of varying severity in the old ways which needed correcting, but none so fundamental as their motivation. Whatever sins Garak committed, he had done so with the best of intentions. He did not believe the same could be said of his father.

Vaiya’s knitting needles clicked softly for a long moment before she spoke again. “Then why do you persist in acting as though needing help is a dreadful weakness? We are all part of the same organism. And don’t tell me I’m too trusting. Sometimes it’s a risk you have to take. Your mother and I would’ve been miserable if we hadn’t decided to trust each other.”

“This is not a matter of trust.” If nothing else, he trusted Bashir.

She nodded. “Pride, then.”

“Vaiya -”

“Your father was a bitter and spiteful man who saw daggers everywhere and couldn’t enjoy a mreka tart for fear it had been poisoned. I do not want that for you, Elim.”

Well. She wasn’t wrong about Tain, was she?

“I will take your opinion into consideration,” he said at last.

“Good.”

Tain had always assumed the worst of people. Garak did not expect he would ever be an optimist, but perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to acknowledge that certain individuals – namely Bashir - were exceptions to the rule even as circumstances changed. Vaiya, who was more or less family, he had long ago deemed such an exemption.

Content in the knowledge that he did not appear to be in danger of losing the only friend he had left, Garak drifted off to a pleasant sleep.

* * *

One of the best features of a universal translator, Vaiya decided, was that it could be turned off. Or at least, the one Dr. Bashir had kindly provided for her could. She wouldn’t know about others; what use did a housekeeper have for such technology?

Regardless, this universal translator was easily disabled, which meant that the gibberish of the audiobook Elim listened to could be tuned out as nothing more than background noise. (Housekeepers might not have needed to understand other languages, but paying no mind to sounds was an eminently useful skill.) Elim understood the alien words perfectly well without his own translator – at least all those hours he was forced to study instead of play like other children had some use – but did not appreciate continued interruptions when Vaiya wanted to know, for instance, if human women truly gave birth to three identical children at once.

So she turned off her translator, ignored the droning human voice, and let Elim listen in peace while she knit.

Elim was still troubled by headaches and dizziness, though neither one seemed as bad as it had been before the surgery. He didn’t spend all day in bed, for one thing. Dr. Bashir said this was normal, as it had only been four days, so Vaiya tried not to worry too much.

Mila had been better at not worrying about Elim, always insisting he could take care of himself. Then again, Mila was also the one willing to put up with Enabran Tain, which Vaiya certainly would not have. Sometimes Vaiya wondered if Mila had much choice in that regard, but regardless, even when it became clear Tain was grooming her son for the Obsidian Order Mila had made her peace with the way things were and would be. She always had a knack for equanimity. Vaiya only learned the outlook slowly over her decades and still struggled at times.

Bashir had come to their guest quarters to check on Elim and didn’t appear in a hurry to leave after pronouncing Elim’s recovery satisfactory. It did Vaiya’s fears good to hear that, so she took the chance to indulge her curiosity. “Doctor, are humans truly born in matching sets of three?”

“Rarely. Identical triplets occur, on average, once in forty-four thousand births. I take it that doesn’t happen on Cardassia?”

“I’ve never heard of such siblings. Even mirror twins must be less common than that.”

“The incidence varies greatly from species to species,” said Bashir, who did not sound the least bit annoyed by her question. “On Andor, for example, identical twins are born once in a generation. That’s for the entire planet. I take it you were listening to the book I gave Garak.”

“I was. Then he complained I interrupted to ask too many questions, so I turned the translator off.”

“I would still be on Part One if she hadn’t,” said Elim.

“That’s a pity,” said Bashir. “I’d be interested in expanding my sample size for Cardassian opinions on human literature.”

“Doctor, I am too fond of Vaiya to subject her to such an experience.”

In truth, Vaiya was not the reader Elim was, and at any rate she preferred good, useful nonfiction when she read. Besides, she didn’t want to offend her generous host by disliking his favorite books. This did not appear to be a concern for Elim.

Vaiya finished her row, placed her knitting down, and stood. “If you’re here to ensure Elim doesn’t do anything foolish, Dr. Bashir, I might take this opportunity for a brief walk.”

Before Elim could object to her wording, the doctor nodded. “Certainly.”

The time without her would be good for them. Elim did not let many people behind his walls, and Vaiya wanted to encourage his rare, precious friendship without intruding on private conversations. She had a feeling there was something on Elim’s mind, and anyway she could walk without pain now thanks to Dr. Bashir’s excellent work on her knee.

“I take it the knee isn’t bothering you anymore?” asked Dr. Bashir, pausing for a quick scan of it.

“You’d never know it broke a table’s fall.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Compared to most Cardassians injured in the Dominion attack, and there were a great many, Vaiya was now incredibly fortunate. The clinic doctors had saved her leg, for which she was grateful, but they were overwhelmed and unable to see to the less critical follow-up which Dr. Bashir had so graciously provided.

“Remember what I told you about Quark,” said Elim.

Vaiya didn’t think a Ferengi would be interested in her on account of her complete lack of latinum. Regardless, Elim had earlier been very clear that it was unwise to put her thumb to anything proffered by a Ferengi. “As though I could forget,” she said on her way out the door. His determination to protect her was endearing, in its way.

Now she would leave the men alone to talk among themselves. If Elim had found someone to discuss old books with him, so much the better that it wasn’t Vaiya.

* * *

Garak refused to be drawn into conversation on the novel, as he hadn’t yet finished listening to it. Instead, he said, “You might share any station news of interest.”

“Now I know you’re bored,” said Julian.

“On the contrary, Doctor, one never knows when general information will be useful.”

“Well, yes. But you’re home now.” Garak wouldn’t really care about the comings and goings on DS9 anymore, would he? Surely he had more important things to do than read about the latest trade delegation to visit DS9.

Garak gave him a contemplative look. “What does that have to do with disinterest in any news you might care to share?”

Oh. Damn. Here Julian had been thinking Garak was happy to leave DS9 in his past and thus trying not to send letters full of anecdotes which would be met with boredom. Now it looked like Garak actually wanted to know what was going on, and since little Julian wrote was likely to be useful, no matter what he said…

Garak still cared.

Julian knew Garak cared while he was on DS9, of course, but he’d thought returning home, and to a broken world at that, would mean Garak’s priorities shifted. Cardassia came first, after all, and Cardassia had so much need right now. Needs which would not be at all ameliorated by hearing about the ion storm which barreled through last week and sent dozens of people to the infirmary with minor injuries.

You didn’t come out and verbalize this kind of realization with Garak. Instead, Julian said, “Kira fined Quark two weeks’ profits for his betting pools on the kai election. And she said if he does it again, the fine will be doubled.”

“Has he stopped complaining about the fine yet?”

“No, and it’s been six days.”

“I’d imagine another twelve, at least.”

“Probably,” agreed Julian. He decided to test his theory. “I’m sure you have more pressing concerns, but if you really want general information, I could share a bit more in my letters.”

“I’d like that,” said Garak, sincere in the subdued way he was when not acting the part.

“And you could, too.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re quite busy.”

“Garak.” Julian waited until the pause had gone on long enough to catch Garak’s attention. “I’m never too busy to hear from you. I thought _you_ might be too busy to hear from _me._ ” It was a more straightforward statement than Garak tended to prefer, but Julian thought it needed to be said.

He was probably right, because Garak smiled and tilted his head the way he did when happy. “Not at all, Doctor. Not at all.”

Feeling more than a bit foolish about his misconception, Julian decided they may as well make up for some lost time. “I went to a Tellarite concert recently. A travelling orchestra came to Bajor, and they stopped off here for a performance which, I have to say, was one of the least enjoyable concerts I’ve attended in my life.”

“I’ve never had the pleasure,” said Garak.

“Pleasure is not the word I’d use. Most of it sounded like a herd of elephants brawling.”

“Which animals are elephants again?”

Julian pulled up an image on the computer. “Earth’s largest land animal. That is, the largest surviving species.”

“Are they known for brawls?”

“Not at all.”

“Hmm. I suppose these long noses -”

“Trunks,” corrected Julian.

“Trunks would be an asset in a fight, but they don’t look very nimble.”

“I’ve missed you,” blurted out Julian. Realizing he might have stuck his foot in his mouth again, he hastened to explain, “I mean, I’m very happy for you to be home, even if under the terrible circumstances, but my lunches haven’t been the same.”

“Nor have mine,” said Garak.

Julian felt one of those metaphorical weights people spoke of being lifted, and the thing of it was, he hadn’t known he’d been carrying that particular weight around until it was gone.

* * *

Garak had thought he’d made it abundantly clear that he’d grown to care for Bashir far more than originally planned, so it came as a surprise to learn Bashir had been uncertain on the matter of Garak’s continuing interest in his life. Perhaps it should not have. Even as clever a human as Julian Bashir couldn’t be expected to entirely grasp the intricacies of a communication as alien to him as Cardassian, and while the doctor had many personal strengths, he was known to misinterpret interpersonal matters more frequently than average.

In any event, this mutual misunderstanding was satisfactorily resolved as far as Garak was concerned. He could now look forward to more diverting letters, a most welcome development. Bashir seemed to feel similarly, as he proceeded to regale Garak with station news before asking, “And you?”

Garak did not want to mar this pleasant conversation with reflections on the devastation which would be with Cardassia for decades. “Oh, nothing so entertaining as your stories, I’m afraid.”

“That’s never stopped you before.” When Garak didn’t immediately launch into a tale, Bashir prompted, “The latest vole incident has me wondering: are voles viewed as destructive pests on Cardassia, too?” It was a generous recognition of Garak’s disinclination to speak of difficult subjects.

“Oh, certainly. They’re loathsome creatures.” And not even good to eat at that. Some people had tried lately, but voles tended to host parasites, making them a very risky dinner.

“I’d have thought they would come up in books now and again,” said Bashir.

Humans had strange ideas about writing sometimes. “Why would we dignify them in such a manner? No, the only voles we read about are antagonists in stories for young children.”

“It’s not about dignity, it’s about reflecting reality.”

“Not everyone insists on that kind of representation.” Literature was what one aspired to. No one aspired to chase voles out of their basement. “Parents often give children a small monetary reward for killing one, you know. I fright to think what the vole population would be otherwise.”

“I imagine you excelled at it.”

He had, though Mila had tended more often to make his favorite sweetbread than pay him in leks. “I had my triumphs. Try not to get bitten by a vole, Doctor. I can tell you from experience that it’s quite painful.”

“That’s what Nog said last week. Fortunately, I’m not likely to have that particular problem in my line of work. Although I am a bit concerned that sooner or later the voles are going to start nesting in the infirmary walls.”

This was the problem with voles on space stations. You couldn’t scan for them and transport them into space, or better yet the nearest star, because a few would end up in shielded areas and reproduce. Even once you did manage to get rid of them, voles were experts at stowing away in cargo and thus always came back.

Garak, enjoying himself tremendously, decided to embroider a vole-catching tale from his youth to amuse Bashir.

It was very good to speak with the doctor again.

* * *

Never in her life had Vaiya fit so many new experiences into such a short period of time. She’d watched a group of Starfleeters perform a human play which made very little sense but had a splendid holographic set, and which Elim then spent an enjoyable evening critiquing with Dr. Bashir. She listened to more pieces of alien music from the station database than she could keep track of, and when she took a liking to a particular Deltan style, Dr. Bashir provided her with a datarod full of files to take home. She watched the wormhole open and close. She failed abysmally at a Vulcan puzzle called kal-toh, compared knitting techniques with a Grazerite merchant’s husband, and watched aliens of all kinds lose money at dabo. She’d even tried Klingon food - a variety which was dead and cooked; she’d insisted on that much - which was not as bad as she’d feared it might have been with a name like k’graGHt. (Did that word not sound like a person choking to Klingons?) In fact it was a kind of sausage rolled in dried mushrooms, and while not delicious, she’d eaten far worse.

It was exhilarating, for a time. Then she was ready to go home. Cardassia, for all its present suffering, was still home, even without the house she’d lived in for most of her life or the security of knowing her employers would provide for her in old age. No amount of novelty could replace that sense of home. Even if home would never be what it was.

So when Dr. Bashir pronounced Elim free to go, Vaiya was ready. She’d also accumulated an impressive collection of food and other necessities by this point, far more than a week's worth. If this was what the Federation considered restricting replicator rations, she could hardly imagine what the Ferengi Dax mentioned had done.

“I’m afraid you’re likely to be more prone to headaches than you used to be,” Bashir told Elim with clear regret. “There’s nothing else I can do, though I have a copy of your record you could give to a Cardassian neurologist. They might be able to help. Don’t worry, I omitted mention of the implant.”

The odds of Elim getting an appointment any time soon over minor headaches were so low as to be absurd. At least the dizziness was gone.

“Common precautions will help. Stay hydrated, avoid eye strain, get enough sleep. And tell me when you need more painkillers. Don’t suffer in silence.”

“If you insist,” replied Elim, with just the right nod that Vaiya felt confident he would actually listen.

The doctor personally took them home. First he transported Vaiya’s replicated food and supplies down. When it was time for them to go, Elim touched Bashir briefly on the shoulder. “I hope some day to host you in a renewed Cardassia City, Doctor.”

“I’d like that,” said Bashir. “In the meantime, don’t be a stranger, Garak.”

“I won’t if you aren’t,” replied Elim, and on that note, Bashir returned them to the house they’d taken over as their own.

Whatever had bothered Elim about asking for help from Dr. Bashir seemed to be gone. He’d declined to tell her, which she’d expected, and with Elim you couldn’t worry about these things. As long as he was done being foolish about the matter, Vaiya was happy.

Elim would outlive her by decades. It was good to know that there was someone else in the universe he’d let in, and perhaps in time he’d find others worthy of the same treatment. It was better still to know that he was not, in the end, going to repeat all of Tain’s mistakes. He’d learned to trust, to let himself be cared for and relax his vigilance enough to enjoy company, and for that as much as saving his life, Vaiya could not have been more thankful to Dr. Bashir.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from this Albert Schweitzer quote: “In everyone’s life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.”


End file.
